


The Art of Holding On

by ded_i_am_just_ded



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alpha Noctis Lucis Caelum, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dancer Prompto Argentum, M/M, Mating, Omega Prompto Argentum, Well - Freeform, elite family noctis, no beta we die like men, pretty much everyone makes an appearance - Freeform, we'll see on that one, wow thats a tag already? okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-02-26 19:41:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18723664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ded_i_am_just_ded/pseuds/ded_i_am_just_ded
Summary: Prompto divides himself down. It's instinct, a survival method that's kept him and his magic safe for years.Noctis wants to know if there's life beyond living in his father's shadow. If there's more to living then simply existing.All their paths lead to one simple, complex thing; each other.





	1. 《The Art of Dancing》

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So hey, is Promptis still a fandom? I don't even know. I replayed the game and dragged myself back into this hell. And here's my first Promptis fic. Let's see how this goes.
> 
> As tagged, this is an AU, suspend some belief for me, please?
> 
> Simple beginnings ahead.

  


  
**《The Art of Dancing》**

He lives two lives.

He keeps them very firmly separate, divides himself in two. It makes life easier, gives him a disjointed sort of structure and a fall-back for when it’s all too much.

Two paths, and he knows eventually he’ll have to let one go.

《☆》

The bass is heavy, shakes the floor and rumbles across his core. Loqi brought him here once, when he’s just turned sixteen, and he’d made his way back on his own countless times since. The music is always good, the drinks are cheap, and the crowds are always looking for one thing. Chasing that good time pony, no expectations and no cares about who is dancing beside you. Scents mix together, blend out the differences that separate all of them. It’s impossible to tell who owns the heady Alpha scents or the sweet Omega ones.

He jumps with the rest of the dance floor, everyone slamming down as the bass drops, laughs as someone knocks his shoulder, has to readjust the sleeve of the long black glove on his left arm, but he does so with practiced ease, reaffixing it around his bicep. He feels like he could fly here. Like the world outside is nothing and he’s one with everything and everyone here.

Fingers brush his shoulder, catch his attention enough to maneuver around other bodies to turn. Aranea grins at him, her teeth flashing multi colors in the flashing neon lights. Her face reads like a tiger on the prowl and she jerks her head, encouraging him off the dancefloor.

It’s calmer outside of the lights, but only just. He swallows down a laugh as he follows her slim form through seas of people, catching flashes of her skin between where her black crop-top cuts off and her wine-red leggings start. The music, the atmosphere makes him feel funny, feel good. It’s an escape he will always gladly accept.

She reaches a side hall, marked with a red rope and a sign reading STAFF ONLY, and ducks under it, gesturing him to follow. They’ve done this countless times, he’s pretty sure they get away with it purely because Aranea knows the owner, helps bring in and keep the clientele.

She stops in the darkness, where the flashing neon lights don’t reach and faces him, glanced past his shoulder to make sure they’re alone.

“‘Nea?” He digs fingers into his pants for a bill.

She waves a hand and slides up to him, leans close, “Heya, sugar. Missed you Friday.” She drapes an arm over his shoulder, lets her hand hang limply behind him, smiles up at him. At this distance he can smell her Alpha pheromones, warm leather and wild raspberries. Not unpleasant, but not his type at all. He still sets a hand on her hip, rolls his thumb over warm skin in kinship, “Got a show coming?”

“Always.” He quirks the corner of his lip up but doubts she can really see it, hopes she can just hear it in his voice, “But you know I don’t talk about that shit here. And I know my absence on Friday can’t possibly be why you dragged me out of the greatest song ever.”

“You say that about all the music.” She leans her weight against him, breasts pushing against his chest and grins, “If I had to wait for you to leave of your own will it’d be after last call.” The hand not on his shoulder drops to dig into her pants and reappears with a small bag, several tiny pills inside, “Pretty sure you’d want to try this before then.”

His eyes widen and he actually takes a step back, “New shit?” he reaches for it but she pulls it away. She never tells him what she’s got, and he trusts her enough to trust she’ll know the product. It’s still a thrill, though, when it’s something he’s never seen, “How much?”

She tilts her head, her hair slipping across her face as her eyes flash, “This time around? Free.”

“But?” There’s always a catch to free. Half the time, Aranea’s ‘free’ catch is simple, but the other half winds up getting him in much more trouble than it’s probably worth. But those times are always worth it if the high is good enough.

“Don’t worry about it right now.” She opens the baggie, extracts a single tablet, “Just enjoy it.” She holds out her hand, index finger extended, tiny tab on the tip.

He maintains eye contact as he leans forward and wraps his lips around the digit to the first knuckle. She laughs as he pulls away, tucks the baggie away, “You’re so lucky I like you, Prom.”

It’s meant to be a light jest, but it tugs at something in his chest. He doesn’t bother to dissect it, instead he rolls the tiny tab over his tongue several times before he swallows it, “Like? ‘Nea, I thought you loved me.” He tries to make himself sound hurt.

She laughs again, pushes a hand into the center of his chest to push him back towards the noise, “Only on days that end in ‘y’, sugarcakes.”

He stays to watch her go, to vanish like a ghost, then heads back to the dancefloor to let himself relax and bathe in whatever trip the pill is going to bring him.

《☆》

The silence centers him. It drowns him and drags him down into his own core. His second-self, the Omega he hides so often can live in this space. Can thrive. He takes a slow step, extends an arm and rolls it in a slow, precise gesture. It’s a different type of dance, a slow, exacting one that’s been taught for generations. He’s in darkness as he takes up the first position, waits for the single beat that signals a start, moves carefully into his second gesture as a light comes up.

There’s the shifting of bodies, quiet murmurs everywhere around him. He breathes it in, his brain processes it, even as he moves into the next few sweeping steps, the traditional music around him setting an atmosphere, giving life to ancient practices.

He feels the shift in his core as he drags his bare feet across the polished floor, slides to turn and leans back, extends hands towards the ceiling. At least twelve Alphas he muses, thinks there may be two Beta, definitely one mated Omega. Quite the audience for such a lowly, old show.

But he’s just getting started, and he knows they’re all waiting. He makes a sweeping gesture and the ribbon wrapped around his left hand unravels and flutters away. The music pauses and he holds position, listens to the gasp of breath and the shifting scents in the air.

He knows he’s rare, knows why they come and pay the price to see him. The musician knows to hold off longer than tradition states, to let the audience drink in their fill. From the base of his middle finger winds a dark, curling line, almost like a tattoo. But it is far from that, and he mentally tugs at the ball of energy in his chest, wills it to respond. The black line changes, the edges glow blue, the color racing from the back of his hand up his arm like a wave, traces the curls and edges of the mark until they vanish into the sleeve of his robe, where he knows it wraps around a circular seal on the curl of his shoulder.

The music begins again, and he drags his hand downward, lets them look upon him. Lets himself pretend he’s anything more than what he is. He loses himself in the ancient dance, forgets the crowd, his glowing arm leaves a trail everywhere it moves. It’s easy, like this.

He lives two lives.

The one where he’s Prompto, the 20-something raver with nothing to lose.

The one where he’s Siren, which he wears like a mark of pride, but knows it’s a shackle that will slowly wear him down.

He keeps them separate, keeps them safely apart.

Until he can’t anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me on [Tumblr](https://ded-i-am-just-ded.tumblr.com/). Like I said, basically new to the fandom, would love to have more people to talk to. And more blogs to follow.


	2. 《The Art of Slipping Away》

**《The Art of Slipping Away》**

 

It was easier when he was younger, but isn’t that how it always goes? His father let him get away with plenty before he presented. Late nights stealing the cars from the garage, his Shield laughing in the back seat because he couldn’t fit up front. Skipping lessons in the early morning to nap in the trees of the school yard. Watching cartoons instead of political debates, playing video games instead of sitting in on board meetings.

They’d always known he’d be an Alpha, he’d come from a long, strong line of them. His father had seemed his proudest when he’d recovered from his first rut, like that was one worry he could finally brush away. Presenting wasn’t anything special or beautiful, it was ugly and it had _hurt_. He’d never been warned about that part. Like an Omega’s heat, he’d felt like he was burning away. The room was too small, too empty, too much. Three days of it and he was glad when he could finally think again.

He’d emerged from his room and had been forced into his place in the hierarchy, a spot he would have gladly left empty. Heir to a family spanning centuries, a lineage that could be traced back to the beginnings of second genders. He was withdrawn from school and new studies began. Ignis stood at his shoulder and gently directed him as he always had. Noctis could sense the differences, though. Could taste the quiet deferment the Beta gave him. He, at least, didn’t smell like anything.

Everyone else seemed to be a different story. After his presentation, scents threatened to drown him. They told him the scents would dull as he got older, and would all but vanish once he’d Mated. Right now, they were bursts of smells that left him with near-constant headaches and he hated it. He despised the instinctual feelings that curled in him when he entered rooms with Alphas he didn’t know, people not from the Pack. The heavy need to be aware of the location of every Omega in the room.

His eighteenth birthday, three years after presenting, his father began speaking of Mates. Began dropping hints and introducing him to people he worked with and their children. He was and wasn’t subtle about it, sometimes pushing his commanding aura onto Noctis and suffocating him. Sometimes, laying down a landmine of a sentence then stepping back to watch the fight in his son unfold.

At his twentieth birthday, his father had given him an ultimatum. Find someone by his twenty first or his father would find one for him. A year to find an Omega he could tolerate, one he’d spend the rest of his life with, one who his father would approve of. It had been the worst birthday ever.

《☆》

Two months until his twenty first birthday, his father throws a party. Noctis hates every second of it, but plasters the fake smile on his face and greets all of the guests. He isn’t surprised they are all faces he’s seen in files from the local matchmaker. The room stinks of hundreds of people pushing hormones, trying to snag his attention.

He catches sight of his father deep in discussion with his own Shield, and takes the opportunity to duck out the door to the servant’s hall to the kitchens. It’s easy from there to weave down back halls to the garages. He leaves the lights off and heads for his own car, a sleek black thing that has seen far too little of the open road.

“Going somewhere?” The deep voice startles him, he hadn’t even smelled his Shield, as the man rounds the front of the car and leans on the hood, crossing his arms. He tenses, debates on if he could make it to the car before the Shield could stop him. The burly man, Gladio, reads something in his face, sighs and drops his arms, “Can we at least take an SUV.”

“We?” He asks, straightening and frowning.

“If you’re running away, you’re going to need someone who knows how to actually function in normal society.”

Noctis looks confused, “I’m not running away.”

“Sure you’re not.” He pushes himself up from the car and heads towards Noctis, “You’re just leaving a party in your honor for more drinks, then?”

He keeps walking, Noctis turns to watch him as he pulls keys from a peg on a wall, waits as he heads for a large black SUV. Gladio opens the driver side door and pauses, “You coming or what?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

《☆》

 

The clock on the dash reads that it’s only 9:07, the skyline is still just barely lit with the last dregs of a summer sun setting. Gladio seems intent on racing it as he guns it down the interstate, heading for the heart of Insomnia. Noctis has no idea where they’re going, but he doesn’t really care, either. It’s away from the suffocation behind them and that’s all that really matters.

He doesn’t get to see the city like this very often, without a parade of escorts, with just his Shield at his side. He can almost pretend to be a normal person.

Gladio takes an exit, weaves down busy streets like he’s been there all his life. Maybe he has, Noctis realizes he really doesn’t know what the other does in his free time. Doesn’t really know anything about his Shield other then the time they spend together.

“I have an idea.” Gladio glances at him, smiles and takes an abrupt turn, “Want to live a little?”

“ _Yes._ ” He breathes.

《☆》

 

He can’t really see much. The room smells like sweat and just people in general, and there’s just so many of them. The lights are dim and he’s thankful, for once, how tall and easy to spot Gladio is. He dodges people in very little clothes, they surround him but they don’t even look at him.

Like he’s just another person in the crowd.

It sets adrenaline into his system. Gladio goes up a set of carpeted stairs, Noctis trails behind, turning to look out behind him. The sea of bodies are barely lit, mingling with drinks, smoke from vapes lifting and vanishing into a haze that’s settled over the top of the large room.

He spots a stage, covered with equipment, and bar upon bar of different lights line the ceiling and walls. It’s all amazing, all brand new. He’s in love already.

“Yo, kid, this way.” He scowls at the term and turns to glare at his Shield. The man is standing next to a guy holding open a dark red curtain, gesturing into the room beyond. Intrigued, he lets his annoyance go and heads up to meet them.

Ducking behind the curtain wall he realizes it’s not another room, but a balcony of sorts, a long row of curved booths, lined with curtains that could be drawn closed for privacy, they all face out over the sea of people, a bird’s eye view of the stage. He leans on the rail to look over the side, down at the sea of bodies. They pay him no mind and it’s amazing. He realizes Gladio has put them in the VIP section, hears him order a few drinks.

A rough hand grabs his shoulder and steers him to one of the booths, but he barely sits on the edge, looking out at the crowd, “This is amazing.” He breathes.

Gladio laughs, “A little different from your usual scene. Figured you might need the break.”

Noctis nods, sits back as a multitude of drinks are dropped off at the table, all different colors and sizes. He picks a red one and pulls it towards himself as Gladio takes a clear one, “Thanks.” He means it.

《☆》

 

He’s two drinks deep when the lights go out completely and the crowd below starts absolutely screaming. He practically throws himself out of the booth to lean on the railing again, searching the darkness. A single red light flickers on, and a bass line starts, the crowd loses it.

The stage bursts into light, a DJ at the center of the chaos, who raises a hand in greeting to the crowd before dropping into focus on the music. The lights flash and spread, like a wave, lighting up the sea of people. Noctis has never seen anything like it before. He wants to be down there. He swings around, drops into his seat and looks at Gladio, wide-eyed.

Gladio takes a sip of his current drink and points a finger at him and gives him a firm look as he lowers the glass, “Have fun, but please, for the love of the Six, don’t get into trouble.”

He downs half of a green drink closest to him, it burns and tastes like apples, then grins across the table, “You’re with me, how much trouble could I possibly get into?” And then he’s up and gone.

《☆》

 

The press of people would probably be panic-inducing if he hadn’t had the drinks in his system. Instead, it sends adrenaline coursing through him and reels him in. He’s never danced like these people are. It’s always been a formal, stuffy affair, but here it’s all laughter and screaming and _fun_.

No one knows who he is, and for the first time in years he feels free. He tilts his head back and copies the moves of the bodies around him, closes his eyes and just feels.

Something grabs his attention, and at first he doesn’t realize he’s reacting. There’s a sweetness in the air, like mint and oranges. It’s laced with the other scents, but he’s still caught by it. It makes him stop moving, makes him open his eyes and look at the people around him. The scent is fleeting, vanishes then returns, like waves lapping at the edge of his consciousness.

And then the bodies seem to part, draw his attention towards the stage. He sees blonde in the flashing neon, pale skin and a splash of freckles across blushing red cheeks, lips spread into a grin aimed at someone Noctis can’t see. The Alpha in him rumbles awake like he’s never felt before.

It almost seems like the stranger can sense him, he sees them tense, stopping their dancing to look around. A pretty woman in barely-there clothes leans into them and Noctis feels a growl burning from the depths of his chest.

But the crowd closes in again, and when he pushes through them, the stranger and their scent is gone, a dying trail that folds into the other scents of the room and vanishes.

Noct stands very still and waits, ignores the bodies attempting to shove him around.

It doesn’t matter, the scent doesn’t return and Noctis retreats back to Gladio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me on [Tumblr](https://ded-i-am-just-ded.tumblr.com/). Like I said, basically new to the fandom, would love to have more people to talk to. And more blogs to follow.


	3. 《The Art of Beginnings》

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His Heat is different. He knows something isn't right when it stretches past the week Loqi had for his. The second week becomes unbearable, a pain in his chest like a box trying to open in a space where it doesn't fit. It becomes a vicious cycle of bodily desires and intense pain, something threatening to shred him apart from the inside._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little more info about Sirens, a little more digging into Prompto's past, a little bit of stepping forward.
> 
> Originally, I was going to release chapters in batches of two, one for each of them, but I'm impatient and have the deep need to share way too quickly.
> 
> Not beta'd, coz I'm that impatient.

**《The Art of Beginnings》**

 

He's five when the war comes to his doorstep. He's not home for it, but his parents are. He and Loqi lose everything in the span of a few minutes, to the screeching sounds of bombs exploding and buildings burning. Their parents had been friends, they'd practically been raised together. Waiting for the train to the state-owned refugee dorms, they only have each other left.

They're seven when they meet Cor. He's got a scar on his face, which is scary, but he's friendly and nice. Cor takes them home with him, away from Niflheim and to a completely different world known as Insomnia. Niflheim had been cold and misty, Insomnia is bright and sunny. Prompto thinks, as he watched the towering buildings in the center grow bigger from his seat on the train, that maybe things will be okay.

Cor gives them a new home. It isn't like their old one. It's a compound of buildings, spread out around a central courtyard, bustling with people at all hours of the day. They have a list of daily chores to finish by dinner, and go to the local public school (listed as brothers in all their files). Cor gives them a place to put themselves together, to figure out who they are becoming.

Loqi presents as Omega early, just twelve when his first Heat hits him, Cor speculates it's probably been brought on by the Alphas that have been moving around the compound doing over-do renovations. It's the first time Prompto hears any of those terms and he asks Cor what they mean. A week after Loqi reappears, they are both placed into sexual education courses.

It's three more years until Prompto presents. His Heat is different. He knows something isn't right when it stretches past the week Loqi had for his. The second week becomes unbearable, a pain in his chest like a box trying to open in a space where it doesn't fit. It becomes a vicious cycle of bodily desires and intense pain, something threatening to shred him apart from the inside.

The first day of the third week, Prompto is pretty sure he's delirious. Someone comes and goes from the Nesting House, drops food and water for him, but he never sees them, barely ever touches the food. He's draining his second bottle of water when the door slips open and a new scent floats in. Instinct makes him hiss.

_Unfamiliar Omega_.

It's a short, old woman, leaning heavily on a curved cane. She looks him over, lets him curl up in his blankets away from her. He hears her click her tongue and watches her step into his nest. It physically hurts to see her in _his_ place. She doesn't belong there. But she puts fingers in his hair and everything seems to right itself. The pain ebbs away, and his whole world is centered on her boney fingers in his matted, disgusting hair.

“Poor child.” She sighs, tilts his head back to look at his face, “Your father is concerned for you.”

He's never called Cor that before, he thinks idly.

“Let's see how far along you are, shall we?” Her hand slips away, he watches her move her index finger down and presses it to the center of his bare chest, the nail cuts in deep.

The world explodes in pain and ice.

《☆》

He doesn't remember much of the rest. Loqi tells him later that he covered the entire Nesting House in a sheet of ice that wouldn't melt and Cor had been forced to send two other Omega to a Heat Hotel. He remembers the old woman staying for a long time, but he isn't really sure how long, he never really kept track of time in the tiny, dark space.

He clearly recalls his first fumbling steps from the room afterward. His brain is still foggy, but he feels like he has actual control over himself again. The sky is darkening, casting the courtyard into shadows that seem too dim. Everything seems to be too much. Lights are too bright, the steps are too large, and worst off, everything _smells_. It makes him dizzy and he leans over the handrail to vomit into the bushes that line the front porch. His body lets him get to the last step before he has to sit down, his legs giving out.

Loqi finds him like that, a small tray in his hand with a bowl and a water bottle. The Omega pauses to look him over, then carefully hands him the bowl. It's filled with a warm broth that makes his stomach threaten to rebel again. He cups it in both hands as Loqi drops down beside him, knocking their shoulders together. It's such a familiar gesture, Prompto feels his muscles relax for the first time in ages and he leans into the warmth, putting his head on Loqi's shoulder and closing his eyes.

“You think Cor knew?” Loqi's voice shatters the stillness, “When he picked us up.”

Prompto shrugs, can't find his voice, and thinks he doesn't really understand what Loqi is talking about.

The stars flicker into existence overhead and they stay still to watch them.

The mark on his left arm becomes a soft glow between them, and Prompto is too tired to question it.

《☆》

The old woman returns. Not a hallucination, then. She give him a new name, a title she says to carry with pride. _Siren_. He's never heard the term before, so it doesn't mean much. She stays and his schedule changes. He doesn't see Loqi nearly as often, is pulled from the public schools and thrown into a new routine.

In the early morning hours he has a four-hour block of what the old woman calls “History and Culture.” It's more along the lines of a choreography course that he doesn't care for. She teaches him hundreds upon hundreds of moves, uses her cane to walk and to correct him when he slips. She explains the meaning behind each movement, drills different dances into his head until he can move unguided to the music she plays over an old stereo. _Tradition,_ she calls it.

One day, when he's weak from pre-heat and can barely follow her instructions, she tells him about herself. She calls herself Siren, too. Says “we” to include him with her as she talks about the history of the secondary gender, about her trainings and the place she was raised. It leaves Prompto thankful for Cor, but also feeling so lost in a giant sea he hadn't known existed. Sirens are a rare, mostly forgotten version of Omega. In ancient times, they were taken from their homes and raised in imperial courts, made to marry into or become concubines for royal families. She smiles at him as she says that tradition ended a few generations ago.

It doesn't make him feel any better about the title.

After the lessons with her, there is a three hour break to give him time to recover, then he joins the other Omega as they return from school to take on other training. Cor oversees everything, brings in different instructors, gives them all a wide variety of talents and skills. No one ever mentions magic.

So he doesn't bring it up either.

《☆》

He's taken to the performance hall for the first time when he's nineteen. An older Omega shows them into the building and through a heavy-looking door into a circular room with a wood-framed stage in it's center, surrounded by chairs on all sides, except for a pathway leading to another door directly across from them. The Omega doesn't speak, nudges him forward and gestures him up onto the stage. He's confused, but he goes anyway.

The Omega vanishes, the lights flicker off, and Prompto begins to understand.

《☆》

He stares at his reflection in the small mirror on his makeup table, chews on his bottom lip. Something has felt off ever since he had gone home last night, something he can't quite figure out. It offsets him, throws him from his routine. Maybe it's because he'd returned to the compound and not to his tiny studio apartment he keeps for the weekends. Maybe it's something Aranea had slipped him.

There's a knock on the door, short and sharp, before it's opening without a pause. He turns on the bench seat to greet Cor as the older man steps into the room. Cor lets the door slide shut behind him before he looks up at Prompto and says, “Hungover?” He doesn't smile but Prompto sees it in the corners of his eyes.

Prompto shakes his head, opens his mouth, but Cor presses on, “You missed your morning lessons today. Lady Aloia was not very please.”

He huffs, “I don't think she's ever been pleased about anything. Ever.” He drags his bathrobe up from behind him, shrugs it over his arms and shoulders and stands, “Besides, I have a show tonight, I'm saving my stamina.”

Cor barks out a laugh, quickly cuts it off, “Nice excuse.” Prompto shoots him a grin and heads for his closet, “Speaking of the show, there's going to be some important people tonight. I'm going to have the intermediate group give an opening performance.”

Prompto pauses, looks over his shoulder at the Alpha, “Important enough to give an opening act?” He clicks his tongue, “What's the big occasion?”

“Sounds like a celebration of some sort. Maybe a rite of passage or something, I didn't dig too deep.” Which means they'd paid him handsomely, “Wear the black and red tonight. They'll appreciate it.”

That's the end of it, Cor doesn't hesitate to show himself out, leaving a slightly bewildered Prompto behind. A rite of passage? _Six,_ he hopes that's not it. Rites are always groups of rowdy Alphas who don't like to hear 'no', they come into the performance hall, talk during the show, and leave a mess behind. They also expect things, think Sirens are expensive whores, demand far more then they deserve.

He runs a hand over the thick fabric of the black robe hanging dead center in his closet, frowning. It's going to be heavy, and it's the height of summer. He dreads the heat and the weight of the fabric. His left hand tingles and he realizes he isn't wearing his bracelet, realizes his magic is trying to respond to the mere thought of the performance. He wrinkles his nose at it and goes off to find the metal and leather band that keeps his magic where it belongs, sealed away inside of him.

As he's snapping it into place it hits him like a bolt of lightening.

The room should smell like Cor. Like an Alpha had been there moments ago.

But it doesn't.

《☆》

The building is quieter than he expected, when he slips in the back door with his attendant, an unpresented young girl who looks at him with stars in her eyes. He stills just inside to listen, expecting to hear a large group of Alphas, rowdy and unsettling. But it's just the soft noise of the overhead music that plays during intermissions, the quiet voices of the other performers, waiting by the curtains for their entry queue.

It makes him curious. What kind of Rite was it that it was so quiet? Maybe not a Rite at all? Perhaps Cor had been wrong. He moves to the abandoned makeup table and sits in the chair, letting the attendant fan the tail of his robe out beside him on the floor, smoothing it out to keep it presentable. He smiles at her, but it only seems to make her more nervous, so he turns his attention to himself.

He never does much makeup, a little concealer to dim the freckles that seem to become more prominent in the stage-lighting, a pale tint to his lips. Nothing more then mostly natural and he does most of the application in his room. Here, he touches up the lip color and sits back in the chair.

Crap, he's forgotten the attendant's name. Harley? Hailey? Hannah? H-something. He looks at her and guesses, “Hanna?”

She looks up at him, eyes wide, and points to herself, “Me? Havana, sir.”

Ooh, so close. He winces, “Sorry.” But she shrugs it off, like she's used to it, “Get me a water, please.” She scurries off to get him one without another word. He hates having people do things for him, but the robe only allows so much movement and he's not sure he wants to stand again until it's his turn.

The lights flicker, a sign that the performance will be starting soon. He hears a rush of laughter from the performers waiting, then a calm silence settles over everything. Havana returns with the water, open with a straw in it. He offers her a smile, but doesn't say anything else as the music reverberates through the room from outside.

He has the moment to himself, so he closes his eyes and breathes deeply. Inside himself, he centers his core, presses into the cold magic that eats away at the inside of his chest.

_Alpha_. He feels the rumbling purr building in his throat and stamps it down. He doesn't know where the thought or reaction comes from. Looking up at his reflection, he realizes he still can't catch anyone's scent in the air.

《☆》

There's a short break between the others and himself. They return and _finally_ he catches a scent. The problem, though, is that it's not any of theirs. It makes him think of mountains in the distance, of the threat of rain in the air.

When he steps out into the spotlight, he realizes the scent is _here_ , in the audience. It's powerful, a shock to his system. It makes him think of places he's never been, things he's never seen. It makes him think of ice skating with his parents, of laughter around the fire pit.

It makes him think _Home._

His instincts are trying to throw him off, trying to make him seek out the scent.

It's the first time since his first performance that he hesitates.

  
  



	4. 《The Art of Diplomacy》

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AKA 《The Art of Fucking Up》

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No betas coz I'm impatient.

**《The Art Of Diplomacy》**

Noctis knows eventually, he’ll be shadowing his father, even farther down the road, he’ll take his place as CEO. Even with this knowledge, he still hates the briefings he has to sit through, the drone of Iggy’s voice as he reads off everything Noctis has missed from not being in the offices of Citadel Electronics. But most of all, Noctis _hates_ playing nice with all these ‘mutual interest’ people his father introduces him to (and then abandons him with, the traitor).

Ardyn Izunia’s smile reminds him of villains on television. With his unkept hair and equally unkept suit, he doesn’t much look like a prospective business partner. He makes Noctis think of oil over water, black and slippery, glossing over everything until you only see what he wants you to see. That’s what Noctis thinks, anyway. Everyone else at the board meeting seemed enthralled with his every word.

Shaking his hand makes Noctis want to take a shower. Or burn his hand off. Or something equally as dramatic. Noctis tunes him out as he speaks with his father, looking around the room at the other mingling business men. He catches Ignis’ eye from near the exit, the man frowns and gestures with two fingers to his eyes then to Izunia, then to Noctis. He tries not to roll his eyes as he turns back to the conversation.

“I suppose a celebration is in order, then?” Ardyn looks straight at him and Noctis wonders what he missed, “Twenty one, won’t it be? A good chance for good news, I would think.”

“Yes,” His father, Regis, agrees, “On more then one front would be nice. If Niflheim and Lucis approve the measures-”

“Oh, they will.” That liquid smile, “Make no mistake about that.”

“Then perhaps there will be a few good announcements on your birthday, son.”

Noctis really wants to wrinkle his nose, instead, he plasters on a fake smile, “It’s still a little while away. Let’s just see how things unfold.”

Regis’ Shield touches his father’s elbow and Regis excuses himself from the conversation, pulled over to one with more, older men from Citadel. Noctis wishes his own Shield would do something like that, maybe fake an emergency or say there’s some dignitary waiting for him in another room. Instead, he knows his own Shield is enjoying his suffering, probably hovering near Ignis.

“So,” Izunia turns his eyes back to Noctis, “I hear Insomnia has quite the night-life? I would hope so, with its name as it is. Does the princely son of Citadel get to enjoy it much?”

He thinks of blonde hair in neon lights, a laugh he can’t hear, mint and oranges he can almost smell.

He shakes his head, “Sadly, the life of the son of a CEO is rather dull. A structured schedule for the entire day. There’s a business to take over, ins and outs to learn.” He tries another smile, “Leaves me too tired to be a normal guy.”

“Ah, my poor boy.” Izunia clamps a hand down on his shoulder and grins at him, “What do you say we experience the nightlife while I’m here? Your entourage can come along too.”

Damn. He really should play nice with this guy. He can still feel Iggy’s eyes on his back, so he nods, “If you speak with my advisor, I’m sure he’d be happy to fit something into the schedule.”

“Good, good.” Izunia pats his shoulder one more time, “We’ll work it out later, I’m sure there’s plenty a foreign tourist would love to see here.”

“Noctis.” _Oh thank the Six_. He’s never been so happy to have his father summon him.

“Excuse me, Mr. Izunia.”

“Ardyn, my boy, call my Ardyn.” He issues a flourishing wave of a hand and an odd half-bow before turning away. Noctis doesn’t hesitate to head for his father.

He can’t smell him, but he bets Izuna- _Ardyn’s_ scent is horrible.

《☆》

“You have to be kidding me.” Noctis tries to give Ignis a dirty look, but the man isn’t even looking his way, he’s shuffling papers on the kitchen counter, appearing to be deep in-task. Knowing him, he probably is.

“Why would I be joking about this? Did you not tell him you would accompany him?”

Noctis throws his hands in the air, “I was being _polite_ , I didn’t think you’d actually make time in my schedule for it.”

At this, Ignis smirks, just a lift of the corner of his lip, but Noctis catches it, “It will be good for you. After your little...escape the other night, this will be good for your image. The tabloids will love you playing nice with Mr. Izunia.”

He narrows his eyes again, glares daggers at Ignis’ face, “I hate you.”

“Here.” He doesn’t respond to the idle complaint, instead holds out a magazine, “His secretary passed this on to me today, he’s marked a few things he’d be interested in seeing. If there’s any that you’d prefer, let me know, otherwise I’ll pick for you.” He finally meets Noctis’ eyes.

Noctis takes the magazine and flips through it, near the back is an entire bunching of “ _Don’t Miss All Insomnia Has To Offer”._ Gag. But he sighs and sits down on a stool to go through it all. There’s multiple events marked with highlighter or a pen, as if the creepy man had gone through it several times.

His once-over doesn’t have anything flag his interest, he’s never been one to really want to see much of the metropolis. He flips it closed and tosses it across the counter, “Whatever, you pick. Don’t agree to all those night clubs he has marked.”

“Of course.” Ignis nods, “I’ll suggest something with a little more culture.”

Oh, Six. That sounds even worse than night clubs with an old man.

《☆》

Noctis is convinced Iggy is laughing at him. Maybe not physically, but he’s definitely enjoying this. He and his Shield have excused themselves to wait by the doors to the restaurant and leave Noctis to play _nice_ with Ardyn, who is flirting awfully hard with their pretty, young waitress. She doesn’t seem very thrilled by it.

He takes a bit larger drink of his wine then he probably should, but he feels like he might need to be buzzed to survive the evening. As he setting his glass down, Ardyn asks, “Were you the one who suggested the evening’s events?” He didn’t wait for a response, “I was very surprised to see the city had a Siren in-theatre. Very rare.”

Noctis frowns. Siren? He’s never heard of it. He shakes his head, “I left it up to my advisor, he’s much better at planning things.”

Ardyn laughs, “Of course, very good taste. I’m excited to see this beauty.”

He can’t resist asking, “A Siren? Is that, like, a singer?” He thinks of the old myths, sea-creatures that lull men in and drown them.

Ardyn shakes his head, his messy hair flying everywhere as his smile slips into creepy territory again, “Not quite. They’re very unique Omegas. They are trained to dance stories.” Well, that sounds interesting, at least. He leans forward, as if sharing a secret, “They possess the ability to use magic.”

Noctis’ confusion must have read on his face, the older man laughed at him, sitting back again, “Of course, nowadays it could all just be stage-magic. Siren are very, very rare, Niflheim hasn’t had one in, oh, twenty-ish years. Your city must guard them like a hawk.”

Noctis feels like that’d be something he’d be aware of, if that was the case.

“Or, maybe, a private collector keeps them.” Ardyn picks up his wine and swirls it around, smiles at it, then at Noctis, “Either way, I’m very excited to see.”

Something twists in his gut, a thread of anticipation and nervousness. He downs the rest of his own wine to try to chase the sensation away.

《☆》

“What do I even do, Ig?” Noctis whispered, following Ardyn and his secretary to a low, large wood-paneled building, “What kind of show is this?”

“Calm, Noctis. Just take your seat and remain quiet. No applause is permitted til the end. And please, don’t fall asleep.”

Oh, great. _That_ kind of dancing. Fantastic.

They’re escorted by a smiling Omega male who bows to greet them, and doesn’t speak the entire time they lead the group to the main hall. It’s slightly intimidating, a large stage centered around a ring of chairs, lights brighter on stage then on the seats. The Omega directs them to a front row, bows as Ardyn and Noctis pass, then vanishes as quietly as they had arrived. The rest of their group fill up the seats behind the two of them.

It’s all very odd. What’s even weirder is they have the entire place to themselves. He turns in his chair to find Ignis, who leans forward enough that he doesn’t have to speak up. It feels like it’d be _wrong_ if he did. “Why is it so empty?”

“Mr. Izunia had requested a private showing. Enjoy it, I’m sure it cost a pretty crown.”

Noctis nods and turns forward just as the lights go out. He feels Izunia lean into his shoulder and hears his oily voice say, “This is it. Let’s see if their Siren is real or not, shall we?”

《☆》

Okay, so it's interesting for, like, three minutes. There’s several Omega on the stage in various flashy colors in robes resembling the kimonos he sees in fashion magazines occasionally (they’re Gladio’s little sister’s, not his fault they keep finding their way into his living room). It’s kind of bothering him that he can’t smell any of them, but he tries to ignore that worry and focus on what they’re doing. But the dance is slow. Like, ridiculously over-the-top slow. More like they do a flourishing movement, then they hold, or the move in slow-motion.

Long story short, it’s _boring_.

Ardyn seems interested, his legs crossed and leaning forward, the corner of his lip lifted in what Noctis assumes is a smile. So Noctis decides at least the guest is entertained. But, Six, he’s going to fall asleep at this rate.

The Astrals must hear his mental complaining, because finally, _finally_ , the ‘music’ (it’s one instrument and it moves almost as slowly as the dancers) picks up, peaks, then drops and ends in a single reverberating note. The Omega on-stage hold their pose until the lights die out. Ardyn stands and applauds loudly, Noctis claps politely from his seat, ignoring the poke Ignis gives his shoulder.

Ardyn looks over at him as he sits back down, “Just think, those are the amateurs. Next is the _real_ show.”

 _It’s not over?_ Noctis holds back a groan, throws on one of his business smiles he’s still perfecting, “Enjoying it so far?”

“Very much so.” Ardyn takes a deep breath, “Ah, so many unmated Omega. What a refreshing scent.”

Noctis can’t really agree, but he nods anyway, “Are they always unmated?”

“No, my boy. But once they Mate, they usually stop performing.” He smiles, “I hear, though, that Siren never really Mate. They can take a bonding mark, but it doesn’t stay. They have to have it renewed, otherwise they’re…” he waves a hand vaguely, “passed on for other Alpha.”

Noctis doesn’t like the sound of that very much. He frowns and looks at his hands, biting back his displeasure.

“It’s just the nature in which they were developed. Too precious to keep to one person.” Ardyn shrugs and leans back in his seat, “Either that or the magic in them doesn’t agree with Mating. Who knows.” He grins, “But it would sure be nice to find out.”

Noctis wants to argue, defend an Omega he’s never met, but the lights dim.

He can hear the inhale from beside him. Something in the room shifts. It feels like a completely different stage. It sends a spark down Noctis’ spine.

A single spotlight flares, a deep blue color, it slides slowly across the stage floor, down the back of it to an opening in the circle of chairs.

First he sees blonde, and he thinks his heart is going to stop.

And then he’s hit with that scent. The one that’s ingrained itself in him. Orange and Mint.

The figure hesitates as well, and he wonders if maybe he can smell Noctis’ scent. But he sees a careful adjustment of shoulders under red-lined black shining fabric, then the figure steps up onto the stage with practiced grace. Noctis is instantly enraptured. This is nothing like the ones before.

The blonde doesn’t acknowledge them, slips a foot forward, slipping out of a slit in the long, thick, heavy looking robe. It’s completely black, save for the crimson that lines the edges and the single sash tying it all closed in a complex, thick belt. The pale skin is startling against the dark color. It’s beautiful.

Noctis has to remind himself to breathe.

The head tilts down, a single hand raises, fingers curling. Music starts.

Noctis knows he is doomed.

《☆》

He can’t even applaud at the end. He’s just...there. Stunned. Confused. The Omega- _Siren_ (he thinks he may kind of understand now)-doesn’t once look at them. When the performance is over, when there’s trails of blue magic floating like ghosts all over the stage, slowly fading, Noctis realizes just how complex the entire thing had actually been. It had looked like small movements, but it really had been one giant story. He feels like he can’t fully grasp it.

The blonde doesn’t stay for anything, just slips back down the stairs and vanishes they way they’d come. Noctis wants to follow.

Instead, Ardyn is laughing, claps a heavy hand on his shoulder and jolts him back to reality, “Now _that_ , my boy, was a show. Wonderful. Bravo.” He stands and claps a few times, looking around, “Surely the Master of the theatre is here somewhere. I’d love to speak with them.”

The curtains from the back rustle, a tall, older man steps in. Noctis doesn’t have to smell him to know _Alpha_. Not just any Alpha, but the leader of a Pack. Probably the guardian of the Siren (does the Siren have a name? Is it just Siren? Now he wants to know.), he walks with the air of ownership, heads straight for them. At first, Noctis thinks he looks angry, but as he approaches, the expression seems to soften and he meets Ardyn’s over-enthusiastic greeting with a handshake and a nod of thanks.

Noctis ignores whatever Ardyn starts to ramble about and instead approaches the stage, looks up at the fading blue that’s drifting towards the ground like snow. It’s beautiful, he wonders what it would feel like to touch, but he keeps his hands to himself. He really, _really_ wants to talk to the blonde again.

“Noctis.” Ignis steps up beside him, forces a cough into a fist to draw his attention, “Ardyn has managed to extend our visit, if you wish to stay.”

He frowned, turned to face him fully, “What do you mean?”

“Drinks, my boy!” Six, he was starting to hate that nickname, but he turns with a confused look to look at the strange Alpha. Ardyn steps towards them, his hands curled upwards, making him look almost like he’s prancing, “Mr. Leonis has been wonderful enough to allow us to meet the lovely performers tonight. Over a few drinks!”

Performers. He stills, doesn’t even mind when Ardyn drapes an arm over his shoulders, looking up at him, “The Siren?”

“If he cares to join,” Mr. Leonis speaks up, shrugging, “It takes a lot out of him. I shall see if he can make an appearance.”

“Wonderful!” Ardyn retrieves his arm to clap his hands together, “Lead the way, good sir. Bring out the finest drinks, I will take the bill.”

Noctis thinks he sees Cor hold his gaze on him a bit longer than necessary, but when he looks, the older man is moving on.

《☆》

They’re seated at a low table, he’s seen them in restaurants before, where you kneel on pillows instead of seats. He sits across from Ardyn, lets Ignis settle to his left, his Shield even farther down the row. Omega filter in, some still in the outfits they’d performed in, and settle into open seats. He’ll admit, they’re all very beautiful. Of course, they have nothing on-

“Is this seat taken?” A voice asks, startling him, and he looks up to see an Omega with short, sweeping dark blonde hair smiles down at him. Not one that had been performing, he’s pretty sure. He realize they’re waiting for a response so he gestures an approval. They sink down next to him and he realizes they’re in simple black pants and a tee-shirt, maybe not a performer at all then? They smile at him, holding out a hand, “I’m Loqi.”

“Noctis.” He shakes the offered hand once, slightly surprised by the grip. Loqi smiles at him, but he doesn’t know where to take the conversation, and Loqi seems fine with leaving it off as it is, greeting the others around him.

A few minutes later, a smattering of small cups and large bottles of what he can only assume is expensive liquor appear. Loqi is quick to take a glass and sets it towards Noctis, then picks up a bottle. Noctis thinks it looks almost like an art, another performance, as he holds it in a way Noctis is sure will make him drop the glass. But it stays in his hands, liquid pours into the glass and Loqi slides it to him, “If you’re not a heavy drinker, I suggest limiting yourself. It’s very strong.”

Noctis shrugs, thanks him softly, and sips the drink. It burns enough to make his eyes water, but there’s a pleasant aftertaste and he finds himself drinking the rest quickly. Noctis looks around the table, tries to pay attention to other conversations, but nothing seems interesting to him.

“If you would like,” Loqi calls his attention back to him, pouring more liquid into his glass, “There is a garden you might enjoy.” Noctis is pretty sure Loqi flashes him a mischievous grin, “I’m sure that alcohol must just go straight to your head, would you like some air?”

He’s confused, but the quirk of Loqi’s eyebrow is curious, so he nods, “Yes. Uh. Air.” He glances at Ignis, “I’ll be back, I need some air.”

“Don’t go too far.” Ignis gives him one of his Looks, a clear warning to not cause trouble.

Noctis shrugs and stumbles to his feet as Loqi gracefully rises in one movement. Noctis gestures for Loqi to lead the way, the Omega issues a half-bow to the table in general, then heads for the door the Omegas had come through. It’s a short hallway, pretty wood floors and bare walls, lined with large windows overlooking a central courtyard.

Loqi brings him outside, down a stone pathway, just far enough to be out of the exterior lights of the building they’d just left, then stops, turns to face him. It’s strange, but he swears Loqi’s face _shifts_ , like he’s removed a mask. Noctis realizes he’d been performing for an audience, he supposes it makes sense. The dirty-blonde steps closer, into Noctis’ space and looks him over.

“What?” He pauses, “There isn’t a garden, is there?”

Loqi laughs at that and steps back, “Oh, there is. But I wanted to see what the fuss was all about.” He smirks, “You don’t seem all that special to me.”

“Oh, gee, thanks.” That draws another laugh from the Omega, he turns and continues down the path without revealing anything else. Noctis has no choice but to follow (okay, so there’s probably a choice, but this is far too interesting).

There’s pale lights lining a side path, Loqi turns that direction, and Noctis sees a line of bushes with an arched entryway. So, he’s really being led to a garden. Loqi pauses again, once more spins and says simply, “There may be other occupants. Be nice, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Then nudges past him and heads back the way they’d come.

Noctis frowns at his retreating back, confused, but heads into the archway anyway. It’s a relatively sizable garden, surrounded by tall hedges and filled with obviously artfully-placed plants, there are flickering lanterns hanging from posts strategically scattered throughout, casting soft light on everything. The single walkway heads to the center, and he follows it carefully, looking around. He realizes when he gets near that he truly isn’t alone.

There’s a single cement bench in the center of the garden and it’s occupied. Even in the dim light, the blonde hair makes him think of the sun. The flowers and the slight breeze mute the scent, but now he knows he recognizes it. They must catch his own, because the figure turns. He thinks he sees blue eyes take him in, and it makes him hesitate. A smile curls onto their lips and Noctis forgets words. They turn away again, looking up at the sky.

Noctis takes it as an invitation, moves to the bench and sits down facing the opposite direction. He wants to speak. To _ask_. To do anything. But something in him is paralyzed. He wonders if the alcohol has already gone to his head. He resolutely does not look in the other’s direction.

He hears a clink, feels a weight settle beside him, and a voice that makes him think of summer, “Drink?” He looks down to see the weight is an almost full bottle of the same alcohol that is being served inside.

He quirks an eyebrow, “Pretty sure most people come outside for a break from drinking.”

The blonde tilts their head back and laughs, it’s music and Noctis is enraptured all over again. He realizes the others eyes aren’t really blue, but closer to a violet color, as they turn towards him, an impish lift to their lips, “I’m not like most people.”

“No.” He says, “I suppose you’re not.”

The blonde takes a drink straight from the bottle and sets it between them again, “Did you enjoy the performance?”

Noctis leans back, curling his hands on the edge of the bench and putting his weight on it to look towards the star-lit sky, “To be honest, the first part was _boring_. I’m definitely not cut out for all this...refinement?”

“Just the first part?”

“Are you fishing for compliments?” He asks, turns his head to look at them and finds the Siren staring right back. That grin again and a shrug, the edge of their red-lined robe slips down their shoulder with the movement and they don’t move to fix it. There’s more black fabric covering underneath, but it exposes the fine line of their neck, which instantly kills any thoughts bubbling in Noctis’ brain.

“Well, normally I don’t need to.”

It’s Noctis’ turn to laugh, “If you want some, I’m sure the guy I came with would be happy to rain them down on you.”

The Siren wrinkles their nose, makes the splash of freckles over their cheeks fold in on themselves. It’s adorable. Noctis kind of loses himself in looking at them, almost misses when they say, “I’m alright without it. I know the kind of compliments men like him hand out.”

Noctis sighs and sits forward, takes the bottle and takes a drink. It burns, but it distracts him before he can say anything stupid. The Siren looks at him like he doesn’t need to say anything at all and it settles something in his chest. As he sets the bottle back down, he turns ever so slightly towards them, “I’m Noctis.”

The Siren hesitates, like they aren’t sure if this conversation should continue, but they nod, “Noctis.” They try is out, it sounds like a purr and does _things_ to Noctis. The nod, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Noctis.”

“You as well, Siren.”

He thinks he sees them frown, but they lift the drink to their lips before he can be too sure.

《☆》

The first thing he realizes is the sunlight is hitting his face from the wrong direction. He tries to remember what had happened, how he had gotten home last night. Nothing helpful comes to him.

The second thing he realizes is there’s warmth beside him, a slight weight on his shoulder. He’s not alone. That wakes him up faster than he thinks anything ever has. He’s definitely not in his own room. It’s an unfamiliar ceiling, unfamiliar light and shadows, turning his head as best he dares without waking up whoever he’s with, he looks around the room, realizes his shirt and jacket are draped over a chair and there’s a pile of black on the ground.

Black and red.

He finally turns his head the other way and is met with a sight he’s pretty sure dreams are made of. The orange and mint is strong, almost like he can feel it weaving into his own scent. There’s blonde on his shoulder, the only place they’re actually touching, hands curled up against a pale, bare chest. He moves as carefully as he can to slide out from under them. They don’t stir other then to grab at the pillow.

It’s clearly morning, he’s clearly been there all night. He remembers them staying in the garden, drinking the entire bottle, just talking. He remembers nothing they said was ever very important, it made him feel like a normal person. Even now, it curls like a flame in the pit of his stomach. He sits on the side of the bed and looks around the room for any more clues.

Why _the Six_ can’t he remember anything after that?

The blonde makes a noise, shifts and rolls onto their back. It unleashes another wave of their scent, draws Noctis’ eyes to them again. The movement has exposed the Siren’s neck. There’s an angry red mark just below their ear, where their scent gland would be located.

Oh.

_Oh._

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliche? Maybe. Do I care? No. 
> 
> Feel free to come yell at me on [Tumblr](https://ded-i-am-just-ded.tumblr.com%22)


	5. 《The Art of Pretending You're Okay》

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Prompto wants to touch his hair._   
>  _He likes the sound of his voice a lot._   
>  _Fuck, he may have had a little too much liquor._   
>  _He’s going to murder Loqi._   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Toooootally thought I had posted this chapter before. Apparently not. Ah well, gave me a chance to add one last scene. Thanks for all the positivity, kudos and comments!

**《The Art of Pretending You’re Okay》**

 

Okay, so maybe he's panicking a little. 

But at least he's finished his performance. He tries to keep the anxiety out of his scent, just in case, but makes a quick exit. Usually he would stay to meet guests, answer a few questions, but right now he can barely remember his own name. He bursts into the back room, startling two Omega still seated there, ignores them and makes a beeline for the small room off to the side where the musician can usually be found.

Loqi seems unsurprised to see him, tosses him a sly grin, “What's got your panties in a bunch?” He resumes storing the stringed instrument carefully, covering it with a decorative ceremonial cloth.

Prompto freezes. Where does he even _begin?_ His tight hold on the door handle relaxes and he forces himself to take a deep breath, “Was it that obvious?”

“Only because I've known you our entire lives.” Loqi rises, adjusts the fabric of his own robe, much shorter and lighter, a delicate sky blue with intricate stitching, “Bad crowd?”

Here shakes his head, “I don't…” he pauses, tries again, “I can't smell anyone anymore.”

Loqi pauses, studies his face carefully, “Can't smell at all? Or just secondaries?”

“That. I haven't been able to for a few days. I don't know why. But…” He trails off, looking over his shoulder.

“But?”

“Someone in the group out there.” Loqi's face looks surprised before Prompto can even finish, “I can smell them.” He steps farther into the tiny room, lets the door close behind him and drops into a chair along the back wall, looks out the mirrored glass, but it's on the wrong side of the stage, he can't see any of the people lingering. It doesn’t matter, he keeps trying to see them.

“You realize what that usually means.”

“Yeah.” He sighs, runs a hand through his hair, “But I didn’t recognize any of them. I don’t understand how it could have happened.”

“So maybe the Alpha saw you.” Loqi sinks into the chair next to him, “Maybe he threw a scent-blind on you, maybe without even noticing he’d done it.”

Prompto frowns, turns his gaze back to Loqi, “You mean so I can’t smell other Alpha.”

“So you can’t smell other _anybody_.” Loqi nudges him, “It’s not exactly like you’re a hermit when you’re not here.”

“Hmph.” He crosses his arms, pretends he isn’t pouting, “I don’t like it.”

“So get him to lift it.”

“I don’t even know which one it is!” He throws his hands up in a gesture of frustration, “This is so dumb! Why are Alphas like this?”

Loqi takes one of his hands and pulls it into his own lap, interlacing their fingers, “Because we’re the logical ones, they’re the hormonal ones.” Prompto scoffs, looks towards the door to avoid Loqi’s amused expression, “Now, tell me what he smells like.”

“What? Why?”

Loqi grins.

《☆》

“Here.” Loqi bursts into Prompto’s room without knocking. He’s waving a large bottle around, filled with dark liquid, and collapses dramatically beside Prompto on the bed, making the blonde bounce a little, “Drink some.”

Prompto wants to ask, but knows it’s probably better not to, so he takes it and finds it already open. He shoots Loqi a look, but takes a long drag of the expensive, strong liquid. It burns in a good way, all the way down, “Are you trying to bribe me into going to the little party?”

“Not even close. Just some liquid courage for you.”

“For what.” He doesn’t make it a question.

“I have a plan.” Loqi sits up, leans into Prompto’s shoulder with his own, and sweeps his arm out in a grand gesture, “I’m going to find your Alpha.”

“Loqi.”

“Put your outer robe back on! Let’s go to the garden.”

“Loqi.”

“And then I’ll find him and convince him to come out.”

“ _Loqi._ ”

“And by then you’ll be pleasantly buzzed and maybe you’ll actually be able to hold a conversation like a normal person.”

“Holy Six, Loqi.” But that’s all he can really say. It’s not the worst plan in the world. Not the greatest, either, but he hadn’t exactly been planning any grand evening. He takes another drink from the bottle.

Loqi gives him his up-to-no-good look and rises to go find the stupid heavy outer robe for him.

《☆》

He’s so fucking _pretty_.

How is he an Alpha?

Prompto wants to touch his hair.

He likes the sound of his voice a _lot_.

Fuck, he may have had a little too much liquor.

He’s going to murder Loqi.

《☆》

He rolls over and realizes he hurts in several different ways. First and foremost is the insane hangover that sends a spike straight into his brain. Second is his body is sore. That gives him pause. He tries to remember what had happened, remembers sitting in the garden, with the Alpha - _Noctis_ , his brain supplies helpfully. He remembers sharing the liquor, laughing, telling stories. He thinks he remembers rising and falling sideways.

Yeah, he remembers Noctis catching him.

He takes stock of where the soreness is in his body. His thighs, his back, not his crotch, so that’s a good sign, although that area feels uncomfortably sticky. And _Astrals_ , his neck burns.

He lifts a hand to rub at the irritated area and hears an intake of breath, distracting him. His eyes fly open (instant regret, sixdamned sun) and he freezes. He realizes he’s in his own room, but it smells like someone else.

He sits up sharply and there he is. In all his dark glory. Fucking shirtless and wide-eyed. Okay, so maybe Prompto isn’t the only one freaking out. They stare at each other, and he’s pretty sure he feels just as confused and awkward as the other.

“Uh,” His voice is still gorgeous, “Hi?”

Hi? Prompto frowns, regrets it when a new pain stabs into his brain, his frown changing to a wince. He issues a noise, somewhere between pained and whining, and twists to throw himself back onto his pillows, face-first into the softness. Maybe he can suffocate himself.

“Hey, look. I’m sorry.” Prompto tries to frown into the fabric, sorry? For what? But Noctis continues, “I don’t know what we...how this all…” He pauses, “I don’t even know your real name. It isn’t Siren is it?”

What? Okay, back up, rewind. He remembers Noctis introducing himself, but did he really never give him his name? Maybe he hadn’t. Which is probably a good thing. A great thing. Whatever happened last night can be a one-time thing and they can just walk away from all of this like nothing-

“Shit, I’m really sorry. I...I’ve never done anything like this before.” Prompto feels the bed shift as the other gets up, “I’ll talk to Iggy and figure this out. I don’t know how to...to fix this.”

Prompto frowns, sits up and looks at him with a confused expression, “Fix what?”

Noctis stills, hand on his jacket on the back of Prompto’s makeup chair. He doesn’t turn to look at him and that makes Prompto more nervous than the strange scent in the air. Prompto realizes he still has his inner robe on...kind of, it’s still tied around his waist but not on his arms.

He pulls it up, slips his arms in.

_Fingers in hair, a pleasant tug. Mouth on his neck._

Everything seems to slow.

_Fingers pushing the robe down. His own fingers clumsily working buttons._

Oh. Shit.

_Friction between bodies. Warm hands that pull his hips down in the best way._

He’s looking up at Noctis again, realizes the other is watching him in the mirror. His eyes go from Noctis to his own reflection.

_Fireworks. Electricity. Teeth. Pain. Pleasure. Pain. The sensation of pieces clicking into place. Of completion._

He lifts his hand to his neck again, and this time feels the indents of teeth.

《☆》

Prompto uses the bathroom as fast as his hangover will let him, scrubs off the mess on his stomach and thighs with a hand towel. It’s all a blur, flashes of memory. He’s plotting the murder and subsequent disposal of Loqi when he finishes, stares at his reflection in the small mirror. A bite on his scent glands. A fucking Mark. He turns his head to the side to study it a little more.

Okay, so it’s not bad to look at.

 _Wait._ He didn’t just think that. This was _very bad_. He and some handsome stranger in a blur of alcohol and hormones. It’s as he’s touching the very bottom of the Mark that it occurs to him.

He throws the door open, startling the Alpha, who was sitting on the corner of the bed, hunched forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped together. He freezes, realizes he’s still fucking naked, but he likes the way the other’s wide eyes look him over completely and the blush that follows the action.

“The Mark.” He finds his voice, and Noctis just nods, “We didn’t…You didn’t…” He runs a hand through his hair, mutters to himself, “Fuck, am I 15 again? Why is this so hard?” 

Noctis stands, takes a step towards him, “I’m not completely sure of everything that-”

Prompto shakes his head, holds up a finger to silence him, “You didn’t knot me, idiot.”

“What?” Noctis frowns, “Pretty sure I didn’t? I don’t think we made it that…” Prompto visibly relaxes, collapses against the door frame, “...far. Why?”

Relief hits Prompto like a wave, threatens to knock his legs out from under him. He covers his eyes with a hand and lets a laugh spill from his lips, “You didn’t knot me. You bit me but you didn’t knot me.”

“Right.” Noctis sounds concerned in a different way now, “We’ve established that.”

“You bit me. You didn’t _Mark_ me. You didn’t Mate me.” He laughs again, slightly hysterical, “You just gave me a _really_ inconvenient hickey. Oh my _Six_.”

Noctis is silent, Prompto can’t hear him moving, so he lets his hand drop and looks over. He can’t read the Alpha’s expression. Relief? Maybe? Disappointment? Perhaps a little? 

The Omega in him wants to cry. An Alpha bit him but didn’t Mate him. Rejection crashes into him a lot harder than he knows it should. _He wanted you, but he didn’t_ ** _want_** _you._ It’s a dumb thought, but it still burns in his chest.

“But,” Noctis cuts into his thoughts, and his voice is like a goddamn balm on a burn, “But our scents? Don’t you feel like we...made a connection?”

Prompto wants to say yes, looks around the room for any excuse. He can’t find any, so he meets Noctis’ eyes again, “You put a scent-blind on me, cut me off from other scents. And this room is _mine_ , so of course it smells like both of us.”

The Alpha doesn’t look too happy at the thought, rubs the back of his neck, “Maybe.” His phone buzzes and he pulls it from his pocket, reads the screen, “I want you to meet my friend. One of them knows basic first aid, let him look at the mark.”

Prompto wrinkled his nose. Let someone else near his neck? No thank you. Besides, he kind of wanted to wear the bite like a prize just for a little while. Even if it wasn’t real. Even if he never saw this man again. Which, in all honesty, would probably be the wisest option. He should say no, escort him out, lock the door, and never look back.

The Omega side of him is unhelpful and insists on just a little longer with him.

He sighs, “Fine. Let me get dressed first.”

《☆》

He’s got a scarf wrapped fashionably around his neck, just loose enough to not be suspicious, but tight enough to hide his neck. They slip through the back entrance of the compound and pause to get their bearings. He looks up at Noctis and can’t help admiring how pretty he is (again). He wonders what the other does for a living, how their paths came to cross.

Noctis is looking down the opposite end of the street, a distraction from blindly taking Prompto’s hand, throwing the blonde off his mental balance _again_. His hand is warm, calloused in places, and just so perfectly wrapped around his own he wishes again this was something different from a one-night stand. 

“Do you know where we’re going?” He asks, glancing around. The back street is empty other than a few trash cans and an old bicycle missing it’s back wheel, leaned up against the wall. Prompto is pretty sure he’s never been down this way before, which is weird because he’s been here forever and he should really know everything about the area.

“Enough to get us to the general area.”

“Oh, that’s helpful.” Prompto rolls his eyes, but allows himself to be tugged along. The main road is much busier when they step out onto it. Cars zipping in both directions, a few people hanging out on a corner down the street to their left. Noctis looks at them with a frown and tugs Prompto in the opposite direction.

They take a few streets, just enough to really give Prompto doubt that Noctis knows where they’re going, but they stop in front of a Starbucks. He blinks, looks up at the sign, then back at Noctis, “Really?”

Noctis shrugs, “It’s out of the way and I can placate Iggy with some coffee.”

“Placate. You mean it’s public so he can’t murder both of us.”

“That too.” A sleek black car pulls into one of the parking spots, distracting Noctis, “There he is.”

A tall, thin, _beautiful_ man steps out. Even from this distance, Prompto can tell he’s a Beta, but he holds himself like an Alpha and his look of disapproval makes him shrink a little. Noctis keeps a firm hold of his hand, though, and steps in front of him just enough to be a bit defensive. It makes his Omega side happy, that this Alpha would protect him.

“Iggy.” He calls as the other man stops in front of them.

‘Iggy’ stares Prompto down over Noctis’ shoulder, “I’m glad you’re okay, Noctis. When you didn’t answer your phone last night, we weren’t sure…”

Noctis shrugs, “I’m old enough to take care of myself.”

“Indeed.” He pushes his glasses up his nose in what seems to be a habit more than a need, “Are you going to introduce us?”

“Oh, right.” Noctis steps to the side, turns to look at Prompto, “This is Ignis,” he gestures, “He’s my tutor and...advisor? I guess would be the term.” Prompto bows his head, keeps his mouth shut. Noctis doesn’t make anything of it and looks at Ignis, “And you already know, this is Siren, from last night.”

“So I remember.” Prompto would really like to leave now, he really does not appreciate the way the Beta is looking at him. He doesn’t think he can inhale until they look away, but then Ignis says, “What was so urgent that you needed me to meet you here, of all places? You didn’t do anything stupid, did you?”

Noctis rubs the back of his neck and doesn’t answer, so Prompto lifts his chin and uses his free hand to tug the scarf down, “I don’t know, does this look stupid?”

There’s a sudden silence, Prompto is sure he feels the temperature around them drop.

“ _Noctis Lucis Caelum_.” Wow, if anything ever sounded like a mother’s disappointment, it was that tone. If things weren’t currently so serious, Prompto would probably laugh. His brain, however, diverted to focus on what Ignis had just said. Lucis Caelum. _THE Lucis Caelum_? Holy _Six_.

Noctis is talking to Ignis, but Prompto can’t focus. He just keeps letting that name swim around in his head. It makes his chest tighten, adds a weight to the chains he already feels. Oh Six, he is in _so_ much trouble.

A hand touches his chin, makes him jump. Ignis is much closer, takes a firm hold of his face and tilts it to the side. Prompto swallows, feels Noctis tighten his hold on his hand. The silence carries on too long, before Ignis steps away again and Prompto can drag in a breath.

“So you bit him.” Ignis says to Noctis, then looks at Prompto, “But he didn’t...consummate anything?”

Prompto shakes his head, “No, he didn’t kn-”

“Then there shouldn’t be any issues. If both parties sign an NDA, we’ll pay for any down-time or lost business for Mr. Leonis. As long as the news doesn’t catch wind of anything, everything should be back to normal within a few weeks.”

 _Lost business_. Well, that hurt to hear. He knew Ignis was simply talking business, but it all felt like a transaction. Like he was an item to be sold.

_You’re an Omega. Siren. That’s all you will ever be._

He looked down, tugged his hand from Noctis’ and rewrapped the scarf around his neck. He manages a nod, “Have someone bring the papers to the compound. The last thing I would want is to cause problems for Cor or-”

“Siren.” Noctis tries to interrupt. It makes him angry, makes him lift his eyes to shoot a dark look at him.

“Or Citadel.”

Noctis looks panicked. Ignis nods, looks practical, “Good, good.”

Prompto ducks his head again, “I’ll take my leave.”

“Wait-”

“Please let Cor know if you require anything else from us.” He turns and walks away, ignores Noctis calling out for him again. There's fire in the corners of his eyes, burning wetness that he doesn’t want to understand. It had been a drunken night of fun. There was nothing else beyond that.

_There was nothing else._

The Omega in him made him cry as he blindly made his way home.

《☆》

He pays Aranea without asking questions. She takes it from him and slips a tab into his mouth. He closes his eyes and savors the attention. When she pulls back, she touches the black band around his neck, tugs it down just enough to see the bruising, “What happened, sugar?”

Prompto shrugs, “Work things.” Things he doesn’t want to think about. Things he keeps separate from this part of his life, “It’ll go away easily enough.”

She frowns, but pulls the fabric back up, covering the marks. He shivers at the contact, it’s not as pleasant as he’d hoped it would be, “Be careful, hon.” She leans into him as the bass drops around them, “You know I’m always around if you need help.”

He grins and kisses her cheek, “I know. Thank you.” They stare at each other for a moment longer before Aranea lets him go.

He loses her in the crowd, stands in the center of the dancefloor until the next song starts and the tablet begins to push its momentary pleasure into his veins.

《☆》

His other home is a studio, a tiny little thing on the seventh floor of a run-down building. It has a kitchenette, a fold-out couch he uses as a bed, a small 3⁄4ths bathroom and a great view of downtown. He’s pretty sure the rent he shells out for his part-time home is all because of the view. The Citadel Electronic headquarters towers over the other skyscrapers, a beacon in the brilliant sunsets he’s watched many times over.

He doesn’t want to see it anymore. It means something different now. He buys curtains to block the view on the nights he comes home drunk and lonely. Hurt and angry. Emotions he doesn’t have names for that swirl inside him. He lets them burn inside him, a ball of tension like the magic he feels in his core.

He wakes up one morning to the sun coming through the curtains, still dressed in club clothes and staring at the fan spinning slowly on the ceiling. He realizes, idly, that he’s cold and he should really get off the floor and go be hungover in bed instead. But when he sits up, the floor around him isn’t its normal dark wood color. Everything around him is covered in a thin sheet of ice. The sunlight makes the frost on the couch sparkle.

It would be pretty if it wasn’t so terrifying.

He’s never had his magic work like this before. His seal on his arm is still covered, and it should have kept the magic in control.

There’s sirens outside, stirring him from his surprise just enough to make him move. He pushes himself to his feet, and looks around. Nothing feels right about this. He doesn’t have a clue what to do now. How does he even begin to clean this up?

There are more sirens, and the sound of ships flying low over the building. More noise than he’s used to, even in this neighborhood. It draws him to the window, makes him pull the curtains aside.

The sun is already above the horizon, casts things below in heavy shadows. His eyes follow an ambulance as it shoots down the road towards downtown. It drags his focus upward. It takes a moment for his brain to comprehend what it’s seeing.

The Citadel has smoke and flames pouring over it, black clouds that reach for the sky. There’s a hole he can see, even from this distance.

He feels startled, feels numb. Feels like his ice magic is covering his insides. He feels it spill out his fingers and over the window glass, frosts over his view of the burning building.


End file.
